


Red and Blue

by Hayato (TheLennyBunny)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Naruto
Genre: Complete, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/M, Pre-Canon, https://bit.ly/2ZEPSl4, non-explicit violence, what clan are the hibari? fuck knows theyre scary enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22626346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLennyBunny/pseuds/Hayato
Summary: Tsuyoshi makes do with a smile, as Sakumo had taught him.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 191
Collections: Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions





	Red and Blue

To be fair, no one expected much out of a raggedy, orphaned Uchiha brat. 

His parents hadn’t been excellent shinobi, father sticking to the office and mother teaching at the school. Neither had activated their Sharingan and neither had wanted to. They had been on decent terms with most of the village, hadn’t taken up in the feud with the Hyuuga, hadn’t bowed down to the elders like they were expected to. 

So when they went out thanks to a battle during the Third War, used only due to the need for soldiers in a war where children were being used, no one really mourned beyond a few in the compound. No one paid attention to the orphan left behind, practicing kenjutsu and genjutsu despite never entering academy. They whispered when he went to Hatake’s house, sneered when he visited Namikaze, but nothing was done.

No one knew when he activated his Sharingan, done at the sight of Sakumo-sensei lying on the floor, begging him to leave. No one cared when he disappeared after dropping the man off at the hospital, ignoring his struggles and cries.

Tsuyoshi was forgettable in the scheme of things. 

* * *

Hong Kong was similar to Wave, enough that he wasn’t too lost as he grieved and fought for a niche. He spent a year on the streets, learning the language and the culture before he tried to integrate in any way, and it meant the locals already knew him as the kindly street boy, willing to help for a little food or shelter. They didn’t comment on his jumpiness or the way he’d never sleep with his back to a door, or the way he’d sometimes have to tinker with something before he used it. Maybe they assumed he was a country bumpkin, or some victim of trafficking. He didn’t quite care so long as they thought he was harmless.

He spent his teenaged years bussing tables and learning how to cut fish, smiling at tourists and locals alike as they praised him. It was different from the quiet in the Uchiha Compound, cousins stiff and uncles and aunts stern. There were no expectations here, no demands for perfection. He almost felt sympathetic for the others left there, Shisui and Itachi-chan stuck living up to it all.

But they also had watched, never helping, Mikoto-obaasan turning away. So he didn’t feel too bad.

* * *

Sometimes he let his eyes flicker red, let his hands glow blue, power flowing through him as he went through handsigns and muttered names to himself. He didn’t want to forget much as he didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to lose this part of himself. So he practiced in the quiet of backrooms and makeshift beds, breath glowing with fire or hands with lightning, surroundings twisting to his will. 

He didn’t do it much. Just enough to remind himself, keep the Fire to his heart. It was the one thing he’d always carry with himself.

* * *

At twenty, a man in a western suit approached him, smoking a cigarette as he watched Tsuyoshi fillet a tuna. He stayed quiet, knowing a predator when he saw one, waiting for him to make his move.

You’ve got a talent with that, he said. Tsuyoshi smiled and nodded. You ever handle anything larger? The man asked.

Tsuyoshi murmured that he’d dabbled with swords as a child. The man cocked his head and asked if he’d be willing to give him a demonstration. He pulled the sword the shop owner had off the wall, feeling its balance and heft. It was a good make, short as it was. He wondered if it had tasted blood before.

Out in the back yard he went through kata, navigating around preservation crates and barrels of alcohol, listening to the noises of the streets and vendors around them. The man watched quietly, eyes intent until he finished, panting deeply.

You’ve learned under someone, he murmured, and Tsuyoshi smiled and laughed. 

How would you like to put it to use?

That day Tsuyoshi learned about the Triad, name whispered among the locals under breaths and in furious hisses. It felt reminiscent of home, whispers of a dark family with power and dangerous claws that controlled everything they could.

When he was introduced to Fong with his red eyes and curly black hair, he almost called him Shisui and laughed until his stomach hurt.

* * *

Sakumo had taught him something, a lesson he’d taken to heart and used to keep his head in the Triads. It was something not many shinobi had believed, certainly not something they’d practiced, and it was the idea that lack of emotion wasn’t the only mask. It was easy to make yourself blank, a slate to all but yourself, but faking emotions, well enough to fool all around you?

It was something he’d only seen street walkers and the wives with black eyes manage.

In the Triads, it meant he unnerved enemies with his cheerful nonchalance, confused the Underground with rumours of his brutality combined with the polite kindness at bars, made his bosses laugh when he played the clumsy fool. None of them knew the real him, knew the difference between masks and here-and-there sincerity, knew anything but the shinobi in civilian clothes.

He wondered if they would ever realise. As he swept his katana down someone’s front, he settled on an amused  _ likely not. _

* * *

In the scheme of things, Tsuyoshi left the Triad fairly quickly. Inhumanly quickly, considering how long others had taken to retire or “retire”. He knew how to disappear, knew how to make sure those who wanted him wouldn’t go looking, knew how to make it so no questions were asked. He’d known it before he ever came to this strange, weak world.

He left the Triad thanks to, of all things, a woman. Sakumo-sensei would be laughing if he could see him right now, and then slapped upside the head by Kazue-san for the hypocrisy. 

Yamamoto Mayumi was a firebrand, reminding him of old memories and the new he embraced. She came by the hole in the wall shop he helped at every week, laughed at his shitty jokes and didn’t ask questions he couldn’t answer, looked at him with  _ understanding  _ with the scars and secrets behind her lips. She wasn’t Triad or Yakuza, but she knew. And one day, a half year into her stopping for a meal and making the shittiest puns imaginable, she grabbed him by his apron and kissed him. In the heat between them after, she asked him to come home with her, do something cleaner than Hong Kong’s backroad bloodletting.

He’d followed her like a dog lead on the hunt.

* * *

The fact Tsuyoshi wasn’t a citizen of, well, anywhere- much less China or Japan- did cause some issues at first. Luckily, Fong liked Tsuyoshi and hated the Triad. Luckily, Namimori was populated and controlled by absolutely inhuman weirdos. The Hibari sort of brought to mind some unholy abomination of Inuzuka and Aburame shoved together. It delighted him to no end.

Namimori was scattered with islands of traditional Japanese, south Asian, European, African, things he couldn’t even identify even after decades here. The people didn’t judge strangeness, being out of place, not when they were exactly the same the moment they stepped out of city borders.

He met a girl named Nana. Her hair shone orange in sunlight and her home was decorated with “antique scrolls” he recognised for storage, incomplete explosions, summoning. She had sushi for lunch probably a bit too much after he smiled at her with black tomoe. 

They opened a sushi shop, and Mayumi started a side business tutoring kids for language classes. Tsuyoshi finally took a last name in this world, sealed off one of the last bits of his past he’d kept his claws in, and Mayumi’s stomach started to round out. They were settled, peaceful,  _ happy.  _

When Takeshi was born, it felt like he finally had something to live for that was more than feeding the sword. He understood why Sakumo-sensei had been so happy, now.

* * *

At five, one of Takeshi’s friends introduced him to baseball and it was the eeriest thing to see him hone in, focus on the sport like a predator in the hunt. Takeshi would swear up and down to those In the Know that the damn kid’s eyes had even flashed red which  _ really Takeshi it’s a sport please calm down- _

* * *

It was a peaceful life, chaos coming from neighbours and customers and not marks and clients. Mayumi loved him despite his history and secrets, and he loved her and every smile she made, every loud laugh and crude joke. Takeshi was the light of their lives and it was by no means perfect with bills and an insanely energetic kid, but it was close enough to be called so.

Except. Not even a non-person could disappear forever from the Triad, and one night they were found. And after, even with the tatami cleaned and traces erased, with the funeral done and over with and a hollowness ringing, it was baseball that kept Takeshi out at all hours and melted away tension from his shoulders. 

Tsuyoshi wouldn’t teach his son kata and kunai at this age because he had learned from his teacher, much as this wasn’t intentionally taught. His son’s games would suit, for now.

* * *

The sushi shop stayed open. Tsuyoshi used his knives and built a dojo behind the shop and house and practiced quietly. His son shot up like a weed. Nana’s son did not, and Hibari Ichiko’s turned a special flavour of feral and started gathering followers and creating blood trails. 

Some still tried to slip through the walls of Namimori. The Hibari were efficient, and when their eyes didn’t glance quick enough, Tsuyoshi was ruthless.

When he was eight, Tsuyoshi brought Takeshi into the dojo and taught him kata, over and over and over until he could do them without the clumsiness of abundant energy or impatience of childhood. He offered to teach him how to wield the sword. He did not push.

Takeshi said he didn’t want to only give it half his attention, and Tsuyoshi understood. He was still proud of his son.

* * *

They ate dinner together. Talked about customers, Takeshi’s classes, recent and upcoming festivals and holidays. Takeshi didn’t mention his classmates in terms of friends, didn’t hint at any crushes, didn’t seem to feel happy or upset with how his homework and grades were. He ate dutifully, played baseball dutifully, and helped in the store dutifully. He didn’t mention any worries, annoyances, fights or arguments or anything remotely negative. He didn’t talk back to Tsuyoshi, even when the man intentionally probed. 

Tsuyoshi hadn’t known what to do with Sakumo-sensei, and he didn’t know what to do with his son. He saw the path in front of them and he was very, very lost.

* * *

At twelve, the Triad snuck through the cracks of Namimori again. Tsuyoshi was a little more prepared this time, a little less slow to wake, and there wasn’t any mercy to his actions as he brought his wakizashi through one of the mercenary’s throats. Only two men, a mistake. They must have thought he’d gone soft in his years of civilian life, contradicting themselves and their claim of the Life never leaving you.

It was only a slight noise, the creaking of a floorboard. Heard down the hall, outside his room. Tsuyoshi went on light feet, silent feet, quieting his steps in a way he’d not needed to for years. Takeshi’s door was open.

His son had remembered the kunai Tsuyoshi had put in his nightstand. It was messy, amateur, a quick stab to the jugular he’d carefully pointed out until the kid had memorized, but by the gods it’d fucking  _ worked _ , and Tsuyoshi felt fucking  **_horrible_ ** .

First blood, in a world where murder was on the same level as treason to a ninja. The Hibari wouldn’t hunt them down, would label it all as self-defense and intruders and trauma getting in the way, but  _ morals _ existed here, and-

And Takeshi wasn’t screaming. Or crying, or doing much more than shivering and staring around his room. He flinched when Tsuyoshi stepped in and lost a wave of tension when he saw it was him, and he shouldn’t have been able to see in the low light, but his eyes in the moonlight shone  _ red _ .

* * *

Hours later in sunlight, with eyes finally a soft hazel and the store silent as Hibari members methodically cleaned up, Tsuyoshi sat at one of the booths with Takeshi. The coffee in front of him was lukewarm, and Takeshi’s soup was probably no better.

He’d need to look into a therapist, yes, and possibly into calling Fong about settling this grudge once and for all. Maybe push Takeshi into lessons after all, to make sure he could defend himself, and seeing if he couldn’t get Sawada Nana to make him a few scrolls, and a whole slew of other things that blended into his mind and became absolutely useless.

Right now, though. Tsuyoshi leaned forward on his elbows and watched Takeshi jump and look at him, exhausted and questioning and altogether too quiet. The ninja-turned-mercenary-turned-cook sighed and breathed deep, circulating energy as easy as breathing. Takeshi’s eyes went wide as saucers when his went red, black pinwheels lazily dragging trails.

He deserved honesty, after all this bullshit.

“Before I moved to Namimori, I was a killer, Takeshi. I was paid to be a bodyguard and hunt whoever my bosses told me to, and I’d been doing it for years. And before they found and hired me, I was a beggar kid that pretended I didn’t have a name and didn’t know Tokyo from Cairo.

“Before that, I lived in a place named Konohagakure, where people could walk on the walls and half my family could drive someone insane with their eyes alone...”


End file.
